I suppose summer days along South Boulevard where it passes in front of the elementary school were no hotter than anywhere else along the Bible Belt and maybe no quieter than any other small town neighborhood at noon in July when kids like me were insideaway from the white ambient, shadowless heat under which I rode home from Center Streetwhere The Bike Man livedand steered my own up into the u-shaped drivewaytoward a pile of glossy magazines, and,kicking with one foot the pages while straddling the crossbar looked around the empty school yardat living room windowsand the Antioch Baptist Church across the street trying to decidehow to get them out of sight to peruse and perhapsto keep a select one or the other.So I raced home and back again paper bag sailing in the windreturning to that same spot even quieter and more emptythan before.

pages flapped and fluttered in the breeze and all seemed to know clearer than I but only George declared in a loud cry and another down beneath the tracks climbed to where it lay on a concrete ledge against the trestle’s round columns while others looked behind and ahead or listened for a train coming though none did in the time it tookfor the limp rag to be passed up between ties toward hearts beating and anxious eyes there behind mounds of overgrown sand traps and reedy ponds said to be full of golf balls but I guessed mostly just turtles and snakes

Scott was a dishwasher just kicked out of house and home, and,knowing his rebellious nature we all figured for a good reason --the very fact that he worked a 40-hour-a-week job during the school year said it all --that 150-dollar-a-week pay checks --enough for a whole month’s rent in that old duplex on Donaghey Street where I used to throw papers for that much in a good month-- were all he needed --the rest he spent on porn magazinesand the busboys went over to see him on Saturday night--but mainly to see his porn,and there he sat in an old Lazy Boy zit covered face as round as those plates shoved into the washer, all smiles convinced that he was the freest 15-year-old boy in Conway

I'd rather leave allthose unfinished novels --never afraid to startI fear one day the story will endso I'll stop where Sue finds her babies from the closet hooks hanging why weren't they more likethe neighbor children? smokingstrutting, shirts off, confidenttwo cocks and a hen in a barnyardyou take away my God and tell me to use the Claude Glass!and let me learn from Wile E. Coyotehis example of perseveranceA for effort, model Sisyphusput it away for wise crastinus,let be Aner Agathos,sipping cappucino, distracted or concentrating on(though noon auctoritee) his own thoughts and feelings

a giant steel pipehanging by cablesover the edge of a concrete shell flushes great amounts of waterfoaming down ten stories like a cascading stream like a slit in the mountain like a humongous faucet that goes on and on runninglike somethingvery, very small

out almost of the 42nd gatehe knows, does or just realized that A.K.A "also known as" meansand what he is eatsthe Northwest Windclear and bright, crispit bares itself, clearly revealedin the 42rd period he hasn't and won't learnhow to learn, and all occurs afterwardall unimportant things in timelike train 1-9-7-zeroup to the platform on a dime7 more cars--that makes 50